


A Rose by Any Other Name

by tredecaphobia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 14:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tredecaphobia/pseuds/tredecaphobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein France settles a dispute over coffee between Greece and Turkiye. Or, rather, just stirs the pot and watches it boil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Rose by Any Other Name

“Hm. I dunno. They taste pretty much the same to me.” France speculates as he swirls the black liquid in the small, enamel mug provided to him. Which is to say, to France at least, ass. And not in the good way. This tastes like English ass left in the sun too long, and… he breaks off his trail of thought before he gets too disgusted or aroused to concentrate on the matter at hand (nothing better than cleaning a dirty little English boy, and--- okay, maybe this coffee is a little too effective) and looks up at the two men who look desperately and leeringly at him, respectively.

He could tell it had been an epic battle, which had probably stretched across the entire continent of Europe, if Greece’s strained look and Turkey’s villainous grin are any indication. Turkey turned, smile with mocking hints lingering in the curves of his mouth, and the shadows of the mask on his face turned him into some kind of weighty ghost.

“See, brat? You’re never entirely outta my shadow. That’s why they call it Turkish coffee.” The youth seems to catch the hints France also sees of the former empire, and looks a little frantic now, his eyes brimming in a suddenly wan face.

“No one calls it Turkish coffee. Not even your own people call it Turkish coffee.” The older man’s look has become more approaching the borderline of triumph; he knows he’ll win this one, and he snorts in half-disdain.

“Of course they don’t; that’d be redundant, don’chou think?”

“Nobody drinks it, anyway; their breath will smell like yours. Burnt coffee.”

“Puts hair on the chest. Men drink it. ” Turkey turned back to France, who felt suffocated, just a little, by the man’s posture (hands on his hips, jutting forward just slightly, legs braced apart), which presented his confidence and vigor foremost, and resumed. “So, France, who do you think prepares it better? Me or the brat?”

France already thinks he knows why Greece looks as desperate as he does. He never wants to admit Turkey has the upper hand to him in anything; Turkey knows that this contest is inevitably his to win. After all, coffee was practically invented by the Turks. And, knowing the man for as long as he had, France was nearly positive there was some sort of bet on this; for Greece, it was pride and independence, for Turkey, it was pride and the admission he would always be superior to Greece.

But even though they taste virtually the same to him (like ass, at least; he has never had an appreciation for strong coffee. They might as well have taken this to America), France was willing to indulge in a little bloodsport. It had been such a long time, after all, that he had gotten to participate in a bloodbath.

The thought made him unconsciously leer, a reaction which made both parties simultaneously wary. Immediately, France wiped the rather manic grin off his face (which only served to make Greece even more suspicious, though Turkey’s own lecherous grin returned, as if he shared a brain with France, and was having similar, filthy thoughts about a little Greek boy), and leaned with feigned nonchalance on one palm.

“But, I’m gonna have to go with Turkey on this one; Uncle always makes the best coffee this side of the Mediterranean.” He winked, imbibed a healthy quantity of the stuff and nearly gagged, making the older man laugh, at first with triumph, and then unfettered glee; the fact that his coffee had served as the downfall of many an unsuspecting tourist always filled him with a sort of sadistic mirth.

“D’you hear that, Hera? Even France agrees. So now take it and drink.” And France sat back to watch the old-fashioned Greek drama unfold. Turkey half turned, plucked France’s mug from his hands (which surprised him slightly; he didn’t know exactly where this was going) and offered it out to Greece, who balked at the cup.

“I… No, this is a dirty trick, you swine. Something’s not right here.” France almost felt bad, which only served to make the almost unbearable sensation of desire even stronger; the kid looked lost, and France could suddenly see why Turkey had so prized him in the past; his eyes were expressive without being overdramatic, and he was one of those rare people with pale complexions that didn’t blotch when upset. And the way his face crumpled from stoicism to uncertainty was simply divine.

Turkey took another step forward, swirling the still-steaming coffee in the cup. “C’mon, kid. A bet’s a bet, ‘n you lost.” Herakles took an involuntary step back, and seemed to be trying to work his way mentally around having to drink it, looking as if he were going to physically refuse the cup. Though France was willing to bet money Turkey had tied this to manhood and pride and whatnot, and so to start a brawl would have disastrous implications.

But Turkey continued, still pressing physically forward. “No? Well, a bet’s a bet. Now drink it and like it.” Turkey practically hissed the last part, and France felt the hair limning his arms and cheeks stand at attention; it was as if a ghost had brushed through the narrow, sunny courtyard, and, honestly, he supposed it had. Turkey (though a loudmouth with twitchy tendencies), had never been kind or relinquishing to his emirates, and it felt like a breath of past implications in Turkey’s voice.

He took a healthy mouthful, tossing the cup, but not taking his eyes off Greece, swallowing the first (France loved watching the man’s corded jaw when he drank) before taking a second, and, without swallowing approached Greece. Greece, who was not about to let peacefully go, retreated a few steps, thrusting his hands, weathered and calloused from a lifetime of outdoor labor and wartime struggle, out to keep the older man at bay.

“Stupid… fuck, stay away, stay awa-!” And then the man seized a handful of cinnamon locks (the grip clearly wasn’t that of a lover’s, France noted; it was controlling, domineering, and exactly one France remembered seeing nearly two-hundred years ago, and he shivered with a joyful dread at the thought), forcing the younger man’s mouth to his (whose mouth opened so naturally, it was as if he still felt bidden to; France almost didn’t notice his sudden erection past the lodging sensation of hopelessness in his throat), and administered the liquid orally. 

It wasn’t a kiss; it wasn’t nearly that tender or that mutual. It was pure subjugation, in the parody of caring, of equanimity, of love, and France couldn’t help but stare. It was rare, so very rare, to see it these days, and France admitted he kind of missed it, considering this as he watched Turkey’s hand remain with the strength of a thousand years at the curve of Greece’s skull, made something eldritch by the lack of eyes (windows to the soul, and France suddenly understood why Turkey had taken to wearing masks; looking upon such an eerie spectacle, one would feel nothing but fear at this shiftless, emotionless creature).

The moment did not break when Turkey finally pulled away; he simply reestablished contact, pressing his forehead into Greece’s (and another, beautiful contrast was made, and France thought it was almost metaphorical) and speaking so softly, France almost didn’t hear him.

“I fergot how sweet ya are. Kinda like it used ta be, eh? Hm, mebbe not quite the same. After all, I still have m’mask on.” Once again, it might have been a tender thing to say, but combined with the guttural, intimate tone, controlling body posture (which Herakles was commendably resisting, his own body still and tense against Turkey’s; France couldn’t remember seeing someone so terrified and enraged), and their own completely closed and private word, one France was too young to understand.

The moment broke when Greece evicted himself from Turkey’s presence, thrusting himself away with a strangled, “How dare you!” Turkey’s grin was still expansive, but now slightly frayed. France couldn’t tell if it was an expression of regret for the continual loss he eternally denied himself, or for the lapse, the sudden memory of what he once was. In either case, the bloodbath was over, and France finally decided to step in to be the neutral party. He didn’t want to be there for the actual bloodbath which, he was sure, was soon to ensue.

“Though,” France piped, as if amending his previous statement, and pouring himself another cup of the bracing coffee. “in my house, we call it, le café arab.” And, suppressing a full-throated chuckle, he glanced over at the two (giving him dark looks for entirely different purposes), and threw them a wink.

**Author's Note:**

> Footnotes and Historical Facts:
> 
> -Turkish coffee is generally known as Arabic coffee to the Arabic world, and known in a lot of countries as its own brew. Generally, however, it’s known as Turkish Coffee. So, Turkey wins this round.
> 
> -After the Cyprus invasion in the 70s, however, Greece started calling Turkish coffee Greek coffee. They switched the country name, but since there’s no translatable equivalent of “coffee” in Greek, they had to keep what it’s named.
> 
> -Um, so French is my second language, but by no means am I flawless in it. I usually lack the appropriate articles, so do tell me if I got France’s last bit in. In French, Turkish coffee is also Arabic coffee XDDD. I recently went to Montreal, and saw they had Turkish Coffee on the menu, and was surprised; I was in an Arabic-speaking part of one of the more French parts of Montreal. Good times.


End file.
